


Hoped

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 20:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13554891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Mairon’s offered an exchange.





	Hoped

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Mini AU for last week’s silmread, The Black Gate Opens, wherein Aragorn directly challenged the Mouth of Sauron and had Frodo’s torn clothes tossed before him.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His realm is cracked and ugly, full of gorgeous _fire_ but too many useless bodies, and it’s _small_ , so much less than the wide plains he once commanded. He longs to feel the broken earth all the way out to the sea, to cover all the world in his sweltering darkness. He can almost _feel it_ , can recall the taste of victory. It’s almost in his grasp. Above him in the tower, his great eye stretches beyond the mountains, caressing the lands beyond with his bitter flame.

Then the heavy door creaks along its hinges, and Mairon’s drawn back into himself, into the small, almost Elvish form that he used to wear about the shores of Valinor. It’s nearly the same as it was some Ages ago, when his master first slipped into his forge and seduced him to this end. But thinking of his mater, so long now out of his reach, is a painful thing. Mairon withdraws from the open window and wafts into the room.

The door pushes wide enough to omit another underling, one towering high in heavy armour, larger and broader than Mairon’s silken frame, but cruder for it. The slaves that Mairon now commands have little of the grace of his older creations—his Balrogs, his Nazgûl, his many evil beasts. But this doddering fool still has a part to play. He gestures another figure into the room, one for whom Mairon’s eyes flare back to life.

 _Aragorn_ stands before him. _Estel_ , as the wind whispers, and a dozen other names, none of which convey enough of the Man’s true strength. When Mairon looks at him, almost could Mairon believe that they were back again, amongst the battles of centuries past, when Men were taller and longer-lived, more noble and hard. Now Men are _weak_ , like so many of the broken wraiths that walk their fading earth. Aragorn’s face is lined and weary, but his countenance is firm, and he stands before Mairon with a bravery worthy of any king. He doesn’t flinch away, though even Mairon’s general lumbers back outside the door, unable to bear Mairon’s presence for very long. Few can. His body is beautiful, but his being is _terrible_ , and he’s always gotten a sick satisfaction out of watching mortal trinkets cower in his wake.

Aragorn dares to meet his gaze. Aragorn waits in silence, and Mairon lets it stretch just to see if Aragorn will squirm. He doesn’t. Mairon waits on anyway, and comes to slowly pace around him, drinking him in from all positions. He is _handsome_ , for a mortal. More so than any Mairon’s seen in centuries. It’s been too long since Mairon’s flesh felt any pleasure. If his master were still around...

But Melkor is _gone_ , and Mairon must make do with the tools given to him. This Aragorn could be useful enough, for the few scarce years that he would live before Mairon’s touch burned him down to ash.

Finally, coming around to Aragorn’s front again, Mairon lazily drawls, “So, you have come to surrender then, after all your tired fighting.” Aragorn’s lip twitches, and Mairon’s gaze falls to the smooth skin above his stubble, the chiseled line of his jaw and the little dimple at its head.

Aragorn answers, in a deep, gravelly voice that makes Mairon keen to hear it _cry_ , “I offer no surrender. But I do offer my life in exchange for the bearer of the torn clothes that your mouthpiece so callously threw before my feet.”

It’s Mairon’s turn to grin. He’d thought that might have a bold effect. When his piteous orcs came babbling to him of two Elven warriors, both now free but feeble and flayed, he merely chuckled. Such spies will gain nothing in his lands, save fear of what’s to come, and even if they should learn anything of use, they would never make it out of Mordor alive. But he had so enjoyed passing down the rags cut off of one, and sensing the grief that that reveal brought. He can sense it now in Aragorn’s face.

He takes a step closer so that he can lift one hand to the warmth of Aragorn’s cheek. Aragorn leans away but makes no move to balk. 

“A straight exchange of prisoners?” Mairon coos. “How novel... and how very _noble_ of you to offer...”

“You have no want of him,” Aragorn hisses, voice suddenly intense, and he even dares to turn his face back into Mairon’s touch. The reddening skin sizzles beneath Mairon’s palm, but Aragorn bears the pain. “I offer you a king.”

Mairon could almost laugh. There are no true kings left in the world, and the few that think otherwise will soon be but a memory. Mairon purrs, “And here I had thought that you were to lead the assault against me.” Aragorn’s eyes finally fall away, and Mairon’s voice dips into a scant whisper: “Ahh, I see now... whatever quest that spy had has failed, and now you finally know what I have known all of these years... there is no hope for you and your kind, none at all.” Aragorn actually winces. Mairon strokes his cheek and wistfully sighs, “Will you not surrender then?”

“Myself only,” Aragorn insists. “I cannot give you all the free people of this world, but I would give my life at least so that my friend might live a while longer.”

Mairon freely admits, “I am sorely tempted.” He drags his fingertips back through Aragorn’s long hair, scorching the ends, and finally withdraws, catching Aragorn’s eyes again with his own and letting that be enough. He holds Aragorn’s gaze fiercely and covets everything inside. In that moment, he wants nothing more than to possess this one creature. He’s wanted it from the moment he first felt Aragorn’s ferocity through the palantír. He wishes only that his master were still at his side, so that they could enjoy this pretty plaything _together_.

But, unfortunately, things have not all gone Mairon’s way. He doesn’t have the prisoner that wore the rags they used as bait—the spy escaped, somehow, and it isn’t quite worth the effort to divert forces from the war just to track one lone elf lost in his web. Besides, there is no need to. Aragorn will be _his_ , one way or another. The light and free will fall. And Mairon will have his pick of prisoners in the aftermath. He’s sure that Aragorn will survive and look lovely in his chains. 

In the meantime, Mairon politely declines. “I am afraid that I cannot accept.” Aragorn’s face falls, but he quickly steels over again, and almost Mairon thinks of chaining him now, before the battle’s given him new scars and wounds.

But that would be less fun. Mairon turns and strolls back for his window, lazily commanding, “Return to your troops, King. For the war is upon us, and there is much left of our game to play.”

He doesn’t look, only listens, as Aragorn leaves. And he smiles to himself and the memory of his master, for soon the good will fall, and the world will be _his_.


End file.
